I’ve noticed that in winter, pieces of outside come in –
willing contraband in mourning arms.
There are rocks on the kitchen windowsill,
fossils in the bookcase,
a bulky basket of cord wood hunkered at the hearth,
and a tall twig standing sentinel in a corner of the dining room.
There is a piece of bark tucked behind the weft in my weaving
and a clam shell full of translucent sea discs on the dresser shelf.
Nearly every jacket in the closet has a rock in its pocket.
A fist full of craggy eucalyptus – remnant from a fall arrangement – stretches from a vase on the kitchen table,
and seedy thistle stalks poke from a jug on the wood box.
Winter is not a favored season but
it’s not so much the weather,
it’s that walls are so necessary then.
Come spring and summer – when confines disappear and outside floats in again
on its own breezy merit
through open windows and doors
to soothe the eyes as a vase of flowers
or drift toward ears as cicada choruses
or tease the nose as fresh cut grass,
there is no want for outside in.
We’ll be inside out.